


Leave The Light On

by herecomesbucktofuckshitup



Category: Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Attempted Sexual Assault, M/M, Millennials Are Poor, Mutual Pining, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Sex Worker Bucky Barnes, oh gosh dangit this was supposed to be a one-shot and it keeps getting longer
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-03
Updated: 2019-01-15
Packaged: 2019-10-03 19:28:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,187
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17290001
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/herecomesbucktofuckshitup/pseuds/herecomesbucktofuckshitup
Summary: Steve's a poor art student who works night shifts at the world's sketchiest motel. Bucky's a sex worker who wants to meet his clients somewhere a little closer to his apartment.The two of them keep each other company and also maybe fall a little bit in love.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Title is taken from the old Motel 6 slogan, "We'll Leave A Light On For You"

The first time Steve met Bucky, he had been sleeping on the job. He’d actually been in the middle of a strangely vivid dream about being a river when the service bell rang and he jerked awake with a start.

He had been greeted by the most beautiful person he’d ever seen. Long dark hair, wickedly pink lips, and amused blue gray eyes smudged with eyeliner. He had needed a few minutes to reboot, his brain only screaming over the pretty boy in front of him and his body confused that it was made of muscle and skin rather than rushing water.

“‘Lo?” Steve had asked, then pushed his glasses up his nose, blinking the sleep and weariness out of his eyes.

Bucky’s smirk had turned to a more genuine smile then, and Steve’s knees had gone weak. “Yeah, can I get a room?” He licked his lips and leaned against the counter.

“A what?” Steve had asked in confusion. He took in his surroundings, the service desk he was sitting at, the cracked, water-damaged ceiling, and at the middle-aged, slightly pudgy man standing behind the pretty boy, who was pawing at his ass with a sort of horny determination that Steve had seen on men’s faces nearly every night since he’d gotten this job.

“Oh, right. Uh, for how long?” He had tried for some semblance of professionalism, cheeks flushing. This was back when he still blushed every time a sex worker came in with one of their johns, even though that was the main sort of clientele Steve’s place of work attracted.

Bucky had looked back at the man, dragging a hand along his chest and purring, “What do you think? Should we get a room for the whole night?”

“Oh, yeah, babe.” The guy had said, then pulled Bucky’s tight white shirt down over the shoulder, pressing his lips there.

Steve cleared his throat awkwardly. “Um, that’ll be seventy-”

The man had just slapped down a hundred-dollar bill, dragging his mouth up the pretty boy’s throat. Steve turned and quickly grabbed a set of keys, sliding it across the counter. “Room 17.”

“Thanks,” Bucky said with a wink, taking the keys. His eyes flicked down to his name tag, and he smirked. “Steve.”

That time had been the first of many encounters with Bucky.

Working the graveyard shift as the receptionist at a shitty, twenty-dollar-per-hour, seventy-dollar-per-night motel may not have been Steve’s first choice, but it was easy and it paid surprisingly well. He knew for a fact that he was a pretty crap at his job, but it wasn’t like it mattered in a place like this. No one expected good service, or even really cared when all they were looking for was either a place to fuck or do drug deals. Still, seeing Bucky had quickly become his favorite part of the gig.

Steve especially loved the days when Bucky’s client would pay for the whole night. He would hand them the key to Room 17, wait a few hours, and then Bucky would be back in the lobby, sneaking away from his sleeping patron. He would drink the terrible vending machine coffee and sit on the counter, talking to Steve about anything and everything. He would complain about needy johns and Steve would tell him about the weirdest person he’d sold a room to. It was tradition.

“Hey man.” Bucky said, coming in to the office around 4 am.

Steve smiled. “Hey, Buck.”

“How’s it going?” Bucky slid a crumpled dollar in the vending machine, and it spit it back out at him.

Steve shrugged. “Same old. Hey, 28 across, 5 letters, city near Scottsdale.”

“Hm. Got any letters for me?” Bucky asked.

“Um.” Steve looked down at the crossword, which only had one word solved. Three down, ‘Kiss in Spanish’, beso.  “No.”

“Try Tempe.” Bucky said. Steve shrugged and filled it in. 

“There was an old lady who came in today who was hiding at least two small dogs under her shirt.” Steve told him.

Bucky laughed. It was sweet and melodic and it made Steve smile. He tried to smooth out the one dollar bill on the side of the machine, jabbing at the buttons. “I don’t even want to know what she was planning on doing with them.”

“Nothing good,” Steve replied. He shrugged uncomfortably in his polyester uniform, turning his desk fan onto a higher setting. “Nothing good ever happens here.”

Bucky banged his fist against the vending machine, trying force it to spit coffee out. “Oh Steve,” He said, turning on him with a sultry smile. “You only say that ‘cus you don’t see the beautiful work I do in Room 17.”

“Uh-huh.” Steve said dryly. He yawned a little, rubbing his eyes. He watched with amusement as Bucky continued fighting the vending machine. “You need help?”

“Fuckin’ thing ate my dollar.” Bucky muttered.

Steve hopped over the counter, because the gate that he was supposed to use to get behind the desk was broken. “Here, there’s a trick to it.” He held the ‘ok’ button and kicked the machine, and it sputtered out a stream of coffee into the styrofoam cup. It smelled burned, and Steve wrinkled his nose, but Bucky leaned in, grinning.

“Thanks, Stevie.” Bucky said, taking a sip. He held the cup up in a salute, wide grin on his face. “It's disgusting.”

“It's always disgusting.” Steve said. He climbed back over the counter, clumsy and graceless. Bucky watched him with amusement, then and leaned his hip against the counter, smirking.

He glanced over at the crossword, which was empty save for the two answers. “Steve,” He sighed, shaking his head. “Here, gimme that.” Bucky made grabby hands and Steve passed him a pen. Bucky stood like that, leaned over, completing the puzzle for him. 

“Couldn’t sleep?” Steve asked, though he knew the answer. Bucky never slept around his clients.

Bucky shook his head, writing down an answer for 13 across. “Nah.”

“You want to take over the desk?” Steve asked. “I’ll go sleep in your room.”

Bucky laughed. “As long as you’re okay with daddy kink and anal beads.”

“Hard pass.” Steve said, wrinkling his nose

Another sip of coffee. Steve was amazed by Bucky’s ability not to make a face. “Not your scene?”

“Nope.” Steve replied.  “I’m straight vanilla. Missionary position in the dark, all the way.”

Bucky chuckled, and Steve was delighted by the way the corners of his eyes crinkled. “Such a boy scout. Speaking of hooking up, do you have the hook-up?” Bucky asked, and Steve nodded, getting out a small bottle of Advil. Bucky took three pills gratefully, throwing Steve a wink. This was another tradition.

He nodded at Steve’s desk where evidence of his time-wasting sat. There were collections of puzzles, more crosswords and sudoku, as well as a magazine, a couple origami cranes, and several research books. “Whatcha working on?”

“I’m banging my head against my thesis.” Steve laughed. “I’m thinking of just dropping out of school and becoming a hoo- uh...” He grimaced, glancing over at Bucky and his pleather pants.

“A barista?” Bucky suggested, a wicked smile on his lips.

Steve blushed, looking down. He was glad he hadn’t offended Bucky. “Yeah.”

“What’s it about?” Bucky hopped up on the counter, coyly glancing at the computer screen. Steve was so caught up in staring at his ass that he forgot his question.

He cleared his throat. “Uh, what?”

Bucky sipped his coffee, swinging his feet. It made him looked really young. “What’s your thesis about? I know you’re studying art, and I know you go to NYU, but I don’t know what you’re getting your Ph.D. in.”

“Oh, uh-” Steve scratched the back of his neck. “Catholic art in the renaissance.”

Bucky raised his eyebrows. “Damn. I don’t know how you juggle all these hats, Steve. When do you sleep?”

“Ha, uh. I don’t?” Steve laughed. “I mean, I’m lucky. I’ve got my dream job, but it's an unpaid internship until my doctorate goes through. So, until then, I’m here, at the sleaziest place at the world, making just over minimum wage.”

Bucky pouted. “Aw, Stevie. We’ll miss you when you go.”

“We’ll always have Room 17,” Steve said, grinning. Bucky batted his eyelashes, putting his hand over his heart.

A man stumbled into the office, hand covering his eyes. “Yo, do you have more-” He blinked at Bucky, starting to grin. “Hey, babe. I was wondering where you got off to.”

“Duty calls.” Bucky murmured, words only for Steve. He set his coffee down the now half-completed crossword and hopped off the counter.  “Heyyyy, Daddy.” Bucky wrapped his arms around the guy’s shoulders. The man leaned down, grabbing handfuls of Bucky’s ass. Steve coughed and looked away.

Bucky threw Steve a lazy salute, dragging the guy out of the lobby. Steve turned back to a crossword puzzle, doodling idly in the margins for almost ten minutes before falling fast asleep. He only ever stayed awake to talk to Bucky.

-

8 am rolled around, and Steve packed up his stuff and headed home. He ran into Bucky on his way out, like he normally did when Bucky stayed the night. “Hey.”

“Hey.” Bucky somehow still looked beautiful after a night of no sleep. He slipped on a pair of sunglasses. “Heading to your other job?”

Steve laughed. “Nah, I’m gonna need a shower and at least two hours of sleep before I do anything productive.”

“I feel you.” Bucky said, stretching languorously, shirt riding up. Steve had to tamp down on the urge to say  _ I wish _ . He groaned. “I’ve got a thing to get to at 10. No rest for the wicked.”

“See you around,” Steve said, heading for the subway station.

Bucky waved him off, smile beautiful and blinding. “It’s more likely than not, yeah.”

It was strange, Steve thought. He and Bucky had been talking at least three times a week for almost eight months now. Bucky knew a lot about him, about school, about his friends, about why he worked at the shitty motel in the first place.

Steve didn’t know much about Bucky at all. He knew Bucky’s profession, obviously. He knew that Bucky like terrible coffee, since he drank it every night. He knew that Bucky was somewhat tech-savvy, after he had fixed the motel’s billing system. He knew that Bucky laughed too hard at bad puns, that he went through a scene phase in high school, and that he once had sex with New York State Senator. Still, it felt like he didn’t really know Bucky.

Maybe it was just that he wanted to know everything he could about him.

The G train was predictably late, and Steve dozed off while standing up, holding onto one of the poles. He made it to his apartment alive, throwing off his shoes and collapsing on the couch. “Mornin’.” Sam said, sitting at the kitchen table. “How was work?”

“Ughhhh.” Steve replied, voice muffled by a cheerful throw pillow.

Sam just loudly sipped his coffee. “That good, huh?”

“Mmmf.” Steve agreed. He could hear the screeching of Sam’s chair and then the sound of his footsteps as he walked over, setting a mug of coffee on the table next to Steve. Steve grunted in thanks.

Sam settled next to him. “How’s dude Julia Roberts?” Steve sat up and reached over to grab his coffee mug, sending Sam sharp look.

“You’re the worst.” He sipped the coffee and made a face. It was hazelnut flavored. Steve hated hazelnuts. “And you know Julia Roberts has a wide-ranging filmography that goes far beyond Pretty Woman.”

“And  _ you _ know I don’t care that much about white people movies.” Sam said seriously, then sipped his own coffee. “Ugh.” He plucked the mug out of Steve’s hands and switched it with his own. “I gave you mine.”

Steve breathed in the black, bitter coffee and hummed contentedly. Sam snorted. “So, the prostitute.”

“Sex worker.” Steve corrected.

Sam rolled his eyes. “Fine, yes.” His phone buzzed, and he glanced down at it, trailing off.

Steve raised an eyebrow, tapping his fingers against the white porcelain of the mug. “So, did you have a question, or…?”

“Huh? Oh, nah. I was just fucking with you about your huge and obvious crush on a rent boy.” Sam said, typing rapidly on his phone. “Ah, shit. I gotta go into work. Stacy’s fucking kid is sick again.”

Steve squinted. “Wait….”

“Yes, I understand the irony of her constantly using her sick kid as an excuse to get out of shifts at the pediatric ward.” Sam groaned, standing. “Why did I become a med student again?”

Steve shrugged. “To help better the lives of unhealthy people while going into massive amounts of debt?”

“Ah, that’s it.” Sam said from his room. He came out in his unwashed scrubs, bag slung over his shoulder. “Later, gator.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Steve waved him off, collapsing back onto the couch, hoping to get at least a half hour of sleep before his other job. Instead, he stared listlessly at the ceiling, hoping for a truck to drive through his apartment building and put him in a coma.

When his watch started beeping, he sighed so heavily that his stomach hurt. He heaved himself up from the couch and dragged himself to the shower. He washed and changed quickly, then forced himself to eat some food.

The commute was hellish, hordes of Brooklynites unhappily going to their Manhattan jobs that didn’t pay enough. Steve listened to an episode of a podcast he had already heard before, steadfastly ignoring the barbershop quartet that sang through three stops and made maybe a buck fifty.

Finally, he got off at 86th, walking the half block to the Met. He passed the galleries and went upstairs, flashing his badge to get into the lab.

“Hey, Steve!” Minh called, not looking up from her work. He smiled at her and walked over to his station, setting down his stuff and putting on his gloves. Dr. Erskine wasn’t in yet, but they had been working on the untitled Byzantine painting of Saint Thomas the Apostle. It was Russian in style, but the canvas was of hemp and probably Anglo-French. The paint was a mix of oil and tempera, and had proved difficult in the solvent tests.

Steve loved the pieces that were a mystery, difficult to ascertain. People always assumed art restoration was just cleaning, just spot-checking and touch-ups, but it was so much more. Everyone who worked in the lab were trained arts historians, chemists, and material scientists. They needed the dexterity and sensibilities of a skilled artists and the instincts of an archeologists. It was a difficult job, and it was Steve’s dream.

He just wished he got paid.

Steve clipped a magnifier to his glasses, working on recovering the line work. He was so focused on his work that it was hard to tell how much time had passed before Erskine came in, patting him on the back. “Sit up straight, Mr. Rogers. We wouldn’t want you developing a hunch back.”

Steve laughed a little and stretched out, feeling a definite soreness in his upper back. “Thanks, doc.”

“How’s our patient?”  Erskine asked, peering over at the piece.

“Thomas is doing well,” Steve answered, taking off his glasses and pinching the bridge of his nose. Detail work always made his vision swim. “The chemists are still trying to work out the best mix for it, so I’ve been cleaning it by hand in the meantime.”

“He looks lovely, Steven. Keep up the good work.” Erskine patted him on the shoulder. “I’ll go check with Niranjan to see if he has the  _ solution  _ to our solvent problem.”

Steve laughed a little at the weak joke, knowing that Erskine was doing it mostly to amuse himself. He returned to his work, mindful of his posture. He continued diligently working, wondering if Bucky would come in again tonight.

There were suddenly lips directly next to his ear. “Hello, my love.”

Steve jumped, placing his hand over his heart. “Pegs, you can’t just sneak up on me while I’m working.”

“Sorry,” She smirked, clearly unrepentant. Peggy worked as a visiting expert on medieval European weapons. She was sometimes called in to identify and analyze new pieces of weaponry.  “How’s it going?”

Steve pushed back from his work, unclipping the magnifiers from his glasses. “Wanna see?”

“Sure.” She leaned over, pressing against Steve’s back. Her hair brushed against his cheek, and she smelled quite nice.

The two of them had an ill-advised fling about a year and a half ago that had ended amicably enough. Steve had actually introduced Peggy to Angie, who also worked part time at the motel. Those two were most likely soulmates and Steve had demanded more than once that their first child be named after him.

“Oh, it’s coming along quite nicely.” Peggy said. “Um, Thomas Aquinas?”

“Close.” Steve told her with a smile. “Wrong Tom. This one’s the apostle.”

Peggy nodded. “Ah.”

“What are you looking at today?” Steve asked.

Peggy rolled her eyes. “Well, they called me in for some paleolithic weapons, but that’s Barton’s field, not mine. For as much as they’re paying me, they could at least remember my field.”

“God, I wish that were me.” Steve sighed. “One of these days, I’ll be able to pay rent, and then they’ll be sorry.”

Peggy covered her mouth in a laugh, squeezing Steve’s forearm. “Oh, Steve. Soon your cards will be up.”

“Uh-huh.” Steve said, unconvinced. “You’re sweet.” Peggy hit him upside the head, sticking her tongue out, then became flustered when one of their more austere coworkers saw her.  

Steve worked on the painting straight through the day, until Erskine sent him home. He napped on the subway ride back to Brooklyn, and had an anxiety dream about his thesis. He made eggs for dinner, since he couldn’t cook for shit and was too poor to order out.

He dozed off on the couch while watching Netflix until his alarm went off and he got ready for work, changing into his starchy uniform and putting on his nametag. He moved through the motions zombie-like and lethargic, walking to the motel with dread in his stomach as he did almost every night.

Steve clocked in and took his position at the check-in desk. The girl who had the swing shift gratefully grabbed her purse and ran out the door, not glancing back at him once.

It was a Wednesday, which was a fairly slow night, but there were always the regulars. Like clockwork, they rolled in. 9pm, the two suit guys who were clearly having an affair that they were both ashamed of; 9:30, the older dominatrix who had a regular rotation of clients; 10pm, the young drug dealer and his influx of buyers; 10:30, the short older man who came in with a different girl every night and was probably a serial killer; 11pm, the young junkie who never made eye contact; 11:30, the extremely obvious adulterers; 12pm, the sketchy looking guy and the very bored-looking sex worker that always accompanied him and never seemed to be paid enough.

12:30 rolled around, and Steve perked up. Bucky didn’t come in every day, or at even at any sort of consistent schedule, but when he did it was at a regular time. At exactly 12:45, the bell over the door jingled obnoxiously and Bucky walked in. He shot Steve a familiarly exasperated look that had Steve grinning. Steve put on his professional voice, because he knew it would make Bucky laugh. “Hello sir, how can I help you?”

“I need a room for two hours.” The guy with Bucky grunted. Steve recognized him as one of Bucky’s frequent fliers.

Bucky turned back to him and pouted, running his hands over the guy’s chest. “Don’t you want the whole night?”

“Nah, I’m not paying more than I have to for this shithole.” He scoffed. “I don’t get why you like this place. We could be at a Hyatt or some shit.”

“You can barely afford me, I doubt you can afford a room in the Hyatt.” Bucky muttered under his breath, words just for Steve. Steve snorted, then tried to cover it with a cough.

The guy tilted his head. “What?”

“Nothing, baby, just making sure we get the right room.” Bucky said, making a face at Steve, looking almost disappointed. Steve was sure that his own expression was equally hangdog.

He turned back, grabbing the key to Room 17 and sliding it across the desk to Bucky, who caught it easily and twirled it around his finger. Steve glanced up at Bucky’s client, staring at one of his stray eyebrow hairs to avoid eye contact. “That’ll be forty dollars.”

The guy sighed, then pulled out his wallet, slamming two twenties on the table. No gratuity. Typical. He walked off, dragging Bucky along with him. Bucky glanced back over his shoulder, giving Steve a ‘hey, what can you do?’ sort of look.

Steve slumped back into his uncomfortable chair. He might as well fall asleep.


	2. Chapter 2

Bucky didn’t come in the next day, or the day after that, or for several days after that. This led to Steve mindlessly doodling in the margins of a crossword and out of total boredom, actually completing a few. (He had to look up most of the answers. He was hopeless without Bucky’s help)

Finally, on Saturday, he appeared, walking through the door at 12:45 with a flourish. He smiled brightly at Steve, draping himself over the counter. “Hiya, Stevie. Room 17 for the night, please.”

“Good to see you, Buck.” Steve said honestly, glancing at the door. “No company today?”

Bucky made a face, waving a dismissive hand. “He said he’d wait outside. Probably doesn’t want to dirty his pristine suit by entering this hovel.”

“I don’t think anyone in a suit has ever said at this hotel.” Steve said, wrinkling his nose. “Actually, that’s not true. There are the suit guys who are totally having a secret gay love affair. They’re in room 9.”

“Oh my god, you have to tell me everything.” Bucky said excitedly. “I’m suddenly more invested in them than I am in my own future. Do you know their names? If you don’t, make some up.”

Steve laughed a little. “I know the shorter one is named Daniel. The taller one calls him Danny.” There was a sharp knock at the door, and Bucky glanced over, face falling a little. Steve passed him the room key to 17 and leaned in, lowering his voice. “When you get a chance to sneak away from your client, I’ll tell you about the time the taller one got a call from his wife.”

“Oh, I bet Danny did something naughty.” Bucky said with a smirk. “He seems like a dirty bird.”

Steve tapped the side of his nose, winking. Bucky grabbed the key, blowing Steve a kiss as he headed out the door. Steve was glad that Bucky’s back was turned when he pretended to catch the kiss out of the air.

-

Steve had been transferring his research notes to his thesis when Bucky burst into the office, eyes wide. He was just wearing tight shorts, panting desperately, gripping the counter like he was going to fall over. “Steve, holy shit, Steve.”

Steve hopped over the counter, taking Bucky by the shoulders. Bucky nearly collapsed into him, and Steve cupped his face, eyes darting over Bucky’s terrified expression. His left cheek was red and swollen, like he had been slapped around, and there were fingerprint bruises on his arms and hips. “What’s wrong? Buck, what happened?”

“Holy shit.” Bucky repeated, and he was shaking. He looked like he was about to fall down, so Steve ushered him into one of the dubious waiting room chairs.

Steve knelt in front of him, and Bucky held on tightly to his forearms. “What happened? Are you hurt?”

“Fuck, Steve. Shit. I-” He shook his head, one hand covering his mouth. “I think I fucking killed a guy.”

“What?” Steve asked, staring at Bucky. “Buck, what?”

Bucky squeezed his eyes shut, hugging himself. “The guy, the client today, he was new and-and something was off about him. We got back to the room and it started pretty normal, but-” Bucky shook his head again. “He broke some of my rules, started doing shit I wasn’t okay with. When I tried to tell him to stop, he didn’t, so- fuck. I shoved him off the bed and ran for it. He grabbed me, and-and pushed me to the ground, tried to…” Bucky set his jaw. “I-I tased him in the dick.”

“You what?” Steve asked.

Bucky waved a hand. “I’m not an idiot, I keep a taser with me when I work. But after I, y’know, zapped him, he didn’t get back up. Or move. He was just laying there.” Bucky took a shaking breath. “I don’t think he was breathing. Fuck!”

Steve grabbed Bucky’s hands. “It’s okay. You’re okay. I’ll go back to the room and check, alright? My mom was a nurse, I-I know how to find a pulse.”

“O-okay.” Bucky stammered, nodding. He looked cold, half naked and shaking like a leaf. Steve grabbed his jacket off the back of his chair, dropping over his shoulders. It was too small to cover him, but Bucky smiled at him gratefully anyway.

“Stay here, I’ll be right back.” Steve murmured.

Bucky quickly grabbed his wrist. “Wait! Don’t leave me.”

“Buck, I have to check-”

“I’ll come with you.” Bucky said, then stood, still holding on to Steve. “Please.”

Steve nodded. “Okay. Just, stay behind me.”

They crept back to Room 17, hand-in-hand. Steve knocked tentatively on the door, and when there was no reply, he eased it open.

There were clear signs of a struggle, the bedside lamp had been knocked over, but Steve was thankful to see it was still intact. The bed was a mess, sheets tangled wildly. Steve could see two feet sticking out from behind the bed. He swallowed nervously, and Bucky gripped his hand tightly. “That’s him.” He told Steve, in a small, frightened voice.

Steve nodded resolutely and stared walking towards the man. He was large, with a hairy chest and belly and thick limbs. He wasn’t unattractive, but he looked somewhat mean. Also, he was completely naked. Steve averted his eyes from the obvious place and knelt down beside him.

Bucky made a small distressed sound from the other side of the room. Steve grimaced and felt the man’s throat, looking for a pulse. He was warm to the touch and a little sweaty.

“I- shit.” Steve closed his eyes, resting his fingers against the artery. “I don’t feel a heartbeat.”

“Oh god.” Bucky said weakly. “What should we do? Call 911?”

Steve shook his head, getting to his feet. “It’s a little late for that, and my bosses will get really angry if they find out we brought cops here.”

“Cops.” Bucky repeated, growing pale. “Oh my god, I’m going to prison forever. I did a murder, Steve. That’s grown-up jail.”

“You didn’t mean to kill him!” Steve said quickly. “He- his heart just gave out. That’s all!”

“After I tased him in the dick!” Bucky exclaimed shrilly. “Oh god, oh fuck.” He doubled over, hyperventilating.

Steve walked over to him, gripping his arms. “Breathe, Buck. You have to breathe. I can’t have two corpses in here, the cleaning crew will kick my ass.”

Bucky laughed somewhat hysterically. “Fuck you, Steve Rogers.”

“There we go,” Steve soothed, cupping Bucky’s jaw. The left side of his face was growing bruised. “That’s more like it.”

Bucky rested his face in Steve’s shoulder, and Steve held him close, holding the back of his neck. “What are we going to do?” He asked, voice muffled by Steve’s uniform shirt.

“Well,” Steve said, trying to think pragmatically. “I guess we should get rid of the body.”

“Oh my fucking god.” Bucky laughed, still sounding far away and terrified. “You watch too much TV, Boy Scout.”

Steve shrugged. “I’m open to alternatives.”

Bucky pulled away from him, glancing over at the ex-client. “I-I don’t know.”

“Here, help me pull the sheets and mattress topper off the bed.” Steve said, walking over to the bed. Bucky numbly followed him.

They worked together, pulling off the thin, crappy, cheap sheets and the egg-crate that the motel advertised as “memory foam”.

It was surprisingly hard to wrap a human body in bed clothes. The man was heavy, and rolling him over wasn’t as easily as it seemed. Steve had this image of his head of mob-movies, when the gangster carried a body out in a rolled-up carpet.

Wrapping the guy up in a mattress topper and fitted sheets just made the body look lumpier. “I think that’s the best we’re going to get.” Steve said, hands on his hips. He was a bit winded. “Let’s carry him to the company car. You grab the head, I’ll take the feet.” Steve bent down, taking the end of the lump. “One, two, three!”

They both tried to heft the man up, but he only got a few inches off the ground before Steve’s wrists gave out and he dropped his end. The guy fell back down with a sickening thump. “That one’s on me.” Steve panted. “Let’s try again.”

“We’re not gonna carry him out of here, Steve.” Bucky whispered harshly. “You’re 90 pounds soaking wet, and I haven’t eaten all day. I’m not exactly Dwayne ‘The Rock’ Johnson over here.”

Before Steve could argue, the lump moved. They both fell silent, staring at it. It moved again, and then shouted in confusion.

Bucky and Steve both screamed, and Bucky jumped on top of the now bare mattress, pulling Steve with him. Steve grabbed the lamp from the floor, holding aloft like a weapon as the man started thrashing about, trying to free himself from his bedding prison.

“What the fuck, Steve?” Bucky demanded, still holding Steve in front of him like a human shield.

“I don’t know!” He replied as the man got to his feet, looking around the room wildly. “Oh, fuck.” Steve added. “He’s not dead. Very much not dead.”

The man whipped around to stare at them, but Steve had already raised the lamp. “Sorry!” He said, then quickly smashed it over the guy’s head.

He dropped to the ground like a sack of bricks, and Steve and Bucky both peered at him from over the side of the bed. “My bad.” Steve said with a wince. “I think I checked the wrong side of his neck.”

Bucky collapsed on the bed, covering his face with a pillow. He let out a short, muffled scream, then threw the pillow across the room, glaring at Steve. 

Steve threw his hands up in the air. “I’m sorry, okay! I’m an artist, not a doctor!”

“Should we call an ambulance now?” Bucky asked, pulling his knees to his chest.

Steve nodded. “Yeah, do that.”

“What about the police?” Bucky climbed off the bed, helping Steve do the same.

Steve shrugged. “I don’t think you’ll get in much trouble, unless he wants to explain why he got those burn marks on his dick.”

“Alright.” Bucky grabbed his clothes and his taser off the floor. “You call them. I’ll fix the bed.”

“That lamp cost twenty bucks.” Steve said, staring at the broken glass on the floor. He winced. “Aw, man, I assaulted a customer. I’m so fired.”

Bucky bent down and found the client’s wallet, pulling the bills out of it. He handed them to Steve. “Keep the change.”

“Half of this is yours, I think.” Steve stepped over the client, carefully picking up the motel phone. He pressed the button that automatically dialed the cleaning team, which consisted of just Angie.

“Hello, this is the maid service!” Angie chirped, somehow sounding cheery.

Steve glanced down at the wad of cash in his hand. “Hey, Ang, it’s Steve. Um, I’ve got fifty bucks for you if you come down to Room 17 and don’t tell on me to management.”

“What did you do, Rogers?” Angie asked flatly.

Steve winced. “Um, I promise I’ll help you clean. But. A crime has occurred.”

“Which. Crime.” She never sounded this threatening before she started dating Peggy. “I ain’t touching any corpses.”

“No, no corpses. I thought there mig- never mind. No, just some assault and battery. I might have smashed a lamp on a dude.”

Angie sighed. “Well, you’re never boring, Michelangelo.” She hung up, which Steve hoped meant that she was coming.

“You called the cleaning lady before 911?” Bucky asked incredulously. “What, is she Harvey Keitel from Pulp Fiction?”

“I’ve never seen it.” Steve said. He started to dial 911, but paused. “I’m still trying to think of what to tell them.” Steve said honestly. “Maybe there’s a non-emergency line I can call? I’m not about to drive this prick to the hospital, but I also don’t want to waste anyone’s time.”

“Steve, oh my god, now isn’t the time for your weird chivalry thing! I think this qualifies as an emergency.” Bucky said.

The door opened, and both of them jumped. Angie stuck her head into the room with her cart. “Er. Hello.” She waved at Bucky. “I’m Angie. Are you the person Steve assaulted?”

“No.” Bucky pulled Steve’s little jacket tighter over his shoulders. He nodded at the guy-bedding tangle on the ground. “Him.”

“Oh.” Angie raised her eyebrows. “Oh. Um. I think we should probably call somebody.”

“We were just talking about that.” Steve said. Angie seemed to be triaging the mess, then started making the bed. Steve caught a glimpse of black, and bent down. “Buck, are these your clothes?”

“Yeah. Um. Yeah, thanks.” Bucky took the clothes, holding them to his chest. “I’m just gonna... yeah.” He glanced around at the complete disaster that was surrounding them, then walked to the bathroom.

The sound of the shower started, and Steve passed the 50 bucks to Angie, who was looking at him expectantly. She shoved the bill into her bra then continued working. 

Steve watched her for a minute, then scratched the back of his neck. “Um. How can I help?”

“Clean up the glass.” Angie said, nodding to the broom. The two of them worked quickly and quietly, both carefully stepping over the unconscious man. Eventually, the room, save for the mess of bedding and creep and a little bit of blood, was spotless.

“Are you sure you didn’t kill him?” Angie asked, poking the guy with the tip of her shoe.

Steve looked over at him for a moment, then shook his head. “Nah, he’s breathing.”

“What now?” Angie questioned.

There was a small throat-clearing sound, and both of them jumped, turning back to look at Bucky. He was leaning against the doorframe of the bathroom, hair still wet. He crossed his arms, looking everywhere but at the guy who attacked him. “Um, I would really like to leave, please.” He didn’t move, glancing at Steve. It took him a moment to realize that he wanted to Steve to come with him. He didn’t feel safe. He didn’t want to be alone.

Steve began to move towards him, but glanced at Angie. She put her hands on her hips and sighed. “The two of you should probably get out of here. I’ll deal with this.” Steve started to protest, but Angie held up her hand to stay his protests. “Don’t worry, Michelangelo, I’ll cover for you with management.”

“You probably shouldn’t be left alone with this guy.” Steve said. “He’s dangerous.”

Angie glanced over at the pile of pervert and shrugged. “I don’t think he’ll be hurting anybody anytime soon. Besides, I already texted Peggy to keep me company.” 

“Peggy never offered to be my bodyguard when we dated.” Steve said with a pout. 

“She likes me better.” Angie smirked. “And besides, I work at a dangerous place.”

“I work here, too!” Steve protested.

He could feel Bucky next to him, thrumming with anxiety. Steve didn’t know if he should touch Bucky or not, but as he began to move away, Bucky moved with him, nearly pressed to his side. Maybe it was the adrenaline that made him bold, or maybe it was his own need for comfort, but he reached down and took Bucky’s hand, lacing their fingers together and squeezing lightly.

Bucky squeezed back.

“We’re gonna go get something to eat.” Steve decided. His mother always said that food was the best way to heal a broken heart. He was sure the same treatment could be applied for shock. “Angie, we’re heading to Morita’s Diner if you need to find us.” He was relieved that he had somewhere familiar to take Bucky.

“Yeah, okay.” She said.

“Can we drink there?” Bucky asked, voice cracking.

Steve was already dragging him away from the room. “I’m sure Jim will be able to hook us up with something.”

Bucky easily allowed Steve to lead him, gently pushing on his arm to guide him around corners.

Neither of them were dressed for the cool night air, and Steve found himself drawing closer to Bucky for warmth. Bucky didn’t seem up to much conversation, so Steve stayed silent, hyper-conscious of where their hands were joined.

The walk wasn’t long, but it felt like ages before they saw the beckoning neon lights of the diner. When Steve finally caught sight of it, he sped up a little, pulling Bucky alongside him.

The diner was mostly empty, save for a drunk at the counter and an insomniac in one of the booths. Gabe was sitting at the front, playing a game on his phone. Steve knocked on the host’s desk, startling him a little bit. “Welcome to- oh, hey Steve.”

“Hey, Gabe. Can I get a booth for me and my friend here, please? And also any liquor you have in the kitchen.”

Gabe grabbed two plastic menus. “We don’t serve booze here.” He said, but took in Steve’s desperate look and Bucky’s shell-shocked expression. “But, I’ll talk to Jim, see what I can do.”

“You’re the best,” Steve said, sliding into the plastic covered seat that Gabe had directed him to. Bucky sat across from him.

Gabe just rolled his eyes, wandering off towards the kitchen.

Bucky folded up his legs in the seat, looking strangely childlike in the overhead lighting. “You come here often?”

The words should be a joke, but he sounds genuinely curious. “Yeah. Um, I lived next door to the family that owns this place. Sometimes, when I’m hard up for cash, the owner spots me a meal. My tab must be in the thousands by now.”

At this, Bucky actually cracked a smile. He glanced down at the menu. “What’s good here?”

“Um, it’s all pretty good, but I’m partial to the waffle combo myself. It’s bacon, hash browns, orange juice, and uh,” Steve knew he was forgetting something.

“Waffles?” Bucky tried.

Steve pointed at him. “Yeah. That. If you ask for the works, Jim puts whipped cream and strawberry compote on them.”

“That… actually sounds really good.” Bucky said. He glanced down at the menu, eyes glazing over with hunger.

“You tryin’ to make me lose my Health and Safety license, Rogers?” Jim appeared at their table, one hand on his hip, the other holding a bottle of tequila.

“Jim, I’m beggin’ you.” Steve said, reverting to the thick Brooklyn accent that he had managed to shake in college. It always came back when he was with his old friends. Or when he was drunk. “The two of us have had a real traumatic experience just now. I’ll even pay you this time. I’ve got…” He counted the remaining bills that Bucky had stolen from his shithead client. “Thirty-five bucks here. That should be enough for a couple of shots, right? And two orders of waffles with the works? And two coffees.”

“Uh, just one. No coffee for me, thanks.” Bucky said. “And I would  _ really _ appreciate the tequila. If we’re voting.” He shrunk a little in his seat. “Please.”

Jim looked at Bucky’s irresistible puppy eyes and sighed, setting the bottle on the table. He pointed at Steve. “You owe me, Rogers. Big time.”

“You betcha.” Steve gave him finger guns as he stormed back to the kitchen.

Bucky was already pouring the liquor into the stained ceramic mugs that sat on each table. He drained his shot, passed one to Steve, then poured himself another generous helping.

Steve downed the two fingers of bottle shelf tequila quickly, trying not to make a face. The liquor sat heavily in his stomach and high on his cheeks. He had always been something of a lightweight, and Bucky seemed to notice the obvious flush that the alcohol brought to his face. “You wanna ‘nother shot, Boy Scout?”

“I’ll pass.” Steve said. “Booze and breakfast do not mix.”

Bucky shook his head sadly, shaking some salt into his mug. “And here I thought you were a proper Irishman.”

He shot back his third drink and moved to pour himself a fourth, but Steve hooked his finger around the mug’s handle, pulling it a little ways away from Bucky. “You wanna talk about it?”

“Not in the least.” Bucky grabbed his mug back, but didn’t go for the bottle. He sighed, looking down at his hands. “Tell me a story, Stevie.”

“Uh, I don’t-” Steve stammered, at a loss for anything to say.

Bucky leaned back, closing his eyes. “It doesn’t have to be creative. Just… just tell me something that happened to you, or something you saw today. I just need… I need a distraction.”

“Have, um, have I told you about the regulars in Rooms 3 and 5?” Steve asked, and Bucky shook his head. “Okay. So, almost every night at 11:30, a middle-aged woman comes in and orders room 3 for an hour, even though she’s got an overnight bag. She always wears sunglasses and a big floppy hat, even though it’s night. She’s got this badly-dyed blonde hair and this big expensive-looking rock of a wedding ring. After she gets the key, she tips me an extra twenty and slips the ring into her pocket.

“Then, at 11:35, a much younger man comes in. He’s pretty good looking, has an accent, maybe French or Italian or something like that. It could be fake, I don’t know. He always looks a bit lost. Anyway, he asks for room 5, for the whole night.” A waitress came by with Steve’s coffee, and he took a sip.

“This guy never brings anything with him. He’s always just wearing a t-shirt and jeans. So, he goes off on his merry way. In the mornings, at about seven, the two of them always walk out together, the woman in different clothes and the man still in his t-shirt and jeans. They’re always all over each other, and they always leave huge tips for the cleaning staff, because I’m  _ told _ they leave quite the mess behind in room 5.”

“And room 3?” Bucky asked. Steve hadn’t even really been sure he had been listening.

“Oh, it’s pristine.” Steve told him. “I don’t think she ever actually goes in it. Actually, I’ve seen her patiently waiting for her lover outside of 5.”

Bucky wrinkled his nose, looking at Steve. “I can’t believe you just used the word ‘lover’ non-ironically.”

“Two waffle combos with the works.” The waitress set down their plates, then smiled at Bucky, batting her eyelashes a little. “You want coffee, hon?”

“No thanks.” Bucky said patiently, giving her a smile Steve had seen him give to customers.

Once she left, Steve leaned in a little. “Are you sure you don’t want any coffee? It's really good here.”

“Nah,” Bucky made a face. He poured a bit of tequila into his orange juice, stirring it with the straw. Steve couldn’t remember if that was a tequila sunrise or a screwdriver. “I hate coffee.”

“What? No, you don’t.” Steve said, a little incredulously. “You drink it every night.”

“Yeah, as an excuse to talk to  _ you _ .” Bucky huffed, then shoveled waffles into his mouth and moaned.

Steve, startled by this confession, simply stared at him. Bucky, face full of whipped cream, frowned. “What?” He asked, mouth full.

“I… nothing, Buck.” Steve quickly, shoving bacon into his mouth so he wouldn’t have to say anything else. Bucky had just said it so  _ easily _ , like it was obvious, a simple statement of fact. Bucky just gave him a sweet smile, stretching his legs out under the table and setting his feet on the seat next to Steve. “You want some hot sauce for your hashbrowns?” Bucky has once told Steve he loved spicy food. 

“Sure.” Bucky dumped an inordinate amount of tabasco on his potatoes. “Tell me another story.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> anyone want some Bucky POV?
> 
> also.... i just realized that a heavy theme in [my work](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13446453) is steve and bucky bonding in a diner in the middle of the night....usually over waffles.....oh well
> 
> hopefully, we as a people can forgive my insomniac nyc diner kink. i guess.

Bucky had found the motel by total happenstance.

He had been in the game about five years, and though he had seen worse venues in his time turning tricks, this place was pretty bottom of the barrel.  

When he started, he was 18, and running around on street corners with girls far older and wiser than him. They would tell him which kind of men to avoid, when not to get into a car, how to prepare himself before going out so that he’d be able to walk the next morning.

One day, when he had been really hard up for cash and on a three day streak of having nothing to eat, he got into a car they had warned him against, and that’s how he met Alexander.

After meeting Alex, Bucky was in the comparative lap of luxury. He would provide the boyfriend experience to rich white men and in return, they put him up in penthouses of five-star hotels, and fed him chocolate covered strawberries and champagne. All he had to do was listen to their problems and lie around naked in their Egyptian cotton sheets. He had to let Alex fuck him whenever he wanted, but it was a small price to pay for keeping him off the streets.

Of course, high-class shit came with its own set of issues. Clients felt entitled to more than he was willing to give, and as he got older, Alexander would push him into situations he wasn’t uncomfortable with.

After he had woken up in a beautiful pent-house hotel, muscles sore, skin littered in bruises, and tears dried on his face and realized that he had woken up this way every day for a week, he called Alexander and told him to fuck clean off.

Now, Bucky was somewhere in the middle. He was experienced enough to find his own johns, and had managed to keep a couple of his favorite clients from his time with Alex. He made himself a website and had each of his customers sign a contract and pay half him half upfront. There were still some nights that he had to take up a few unsavory characters in order to pay the bills, but at least he was his own boss.

The motel had come after a particularly needy john of his had gotten kicked out by his wife. He was staying at the place and had begged Bucky to come over and cheer him up. It was grimy and sleazy and probably full of asbestos and rats, but it was conveniently close to his apartment and no one there asked too many questions.

Besides, it was cheap, and when clients didn’t have to pay too much on rooms, they paid more on him. He hated staying the night. He was convinced there were bedbugs, and the walls were paper thin, and he could never sleep when he was with a client anyway; not since that time one of Alex’s johns had tried to pull shit with him while he was sleeping.

So, about his sixth or seventh time staying the night at that godforsaken shithole, he had snuck away from his sleeping customer and wandered towards the reception area, since he had seen a coffee machine there. He despised the stuff, but it would help him stay awake and provide something of a distraction.

The cute guy who had sleepily given him his room key was staring, dead-eyed at the ceiling. He startled when Bucky came in, flailing adorably. He blinked at him in surprise, then turned a delicious shade of pink. “Uh, hi! Can I, um can I help you?”

“I’ve never seen you around here before,” Bucky told him, leaning against the counter.

The guy, ‘Steve’, as his name tag would have Bucky believe, scratched the back of his neck. “Yeah, I’m-” He broke off with a yawn. “I’m new.”

“You should really get some coloring books or something. Maybe a deck of cards or sudoku or some shit like that.” Bucky remarked. “A Rubix cube, maybe? Or like, a GameBoy.”

Steve looked totally baffled, like Bucky had started speaking an alien language at him. “Huh?”

“To kill time, man.” Bucky gestured at the empty desk and the ancient computer. “If I were you, I would have died of boredom already.”

Steve broke out into a smile. It was the brightest thing Bucky had seen all day. “I don’t think doing puzzles on the jobs is encouraged by management.”

“I won’t tell on you.” Bucky said, leaning in conspiratorially. The shitty fluorescent lights flickered overhead, and he pinched the bridge of his nose, the headache that he had been fighting off all day returning with a vengeance. “Shit, that kills.”

“Oh, hold on.” Steve ducked under the desk and came back with a small jar of Advil. “I bought it after my first night here” He rattled it invitingly. At Bucky’s skeptic look, he pulled it back a little. “I, uh, I promise I’m not trying to poison you or anything. Scout’s honor.”

Painkillers would be nice right about now. Bucky usually had a self-imposed rule of not taking pills from strangers, but something about Steve was totally trustworthy. “I mean, since you’re a boy scout, I guess it couldn’t hurt.”

“Wait,” Steve drew the bottle to his chest. “Really? You’re just gonna take them?”

Bucky, who had been reaching out to accept the pills, curled his fingers into his palm and frowned. “Uh, yes? You just offered…”

“Yeah, but then I was super sketchy about it! You can’t just take random pills from strange men! I could be a serial killer or some kind of pervert!” Steve threw his hands up in the air.

“Are you?” Bucky asked. He hadn’t known it at the time, but that was probably the moment that he had fallen in love.

Steve, who seemed to be gearing up for some kind of rant, paused. “What?”

“Are you a serial killer? Or some kind of pervert, for that matter?” Bucky was starting to smile, a genuine, honest-to-god grin.

Steve deflated a little. “I mean, no, but-”

“Then chill, Boy Scout.” Bucky snatched the bottle from his hand, emptying three little orange candy-coated pills into his hand and swallowing them dry.

“You really shouldn’t dry swallow those.” Steve said, grumbling a little, though it there wasn’t much heat behind it. The corners of his eyes were crinkling sweetly, and in that moment, Bucky wanted to lean over the counter and press a kiss to that exact spot.

Instead, he offered his hand. “I’m Bucky.”

Now, it felt like he had known Steve forever. Steve, who calls his mother every day; Steve, who made the cheesiest jokes in the world; Steve who was studying art and was writing a thesis and worked at the Met and still managed to offer Bucky a bright smile every night he came in; Steve, who was apparently totally willing to help Bucky clean up what he assumed to be a dead body with next to no questions.

Bucky wasn’t ashamed to admit that he was shaken. He wished that it had been his first violent run-in with a client, or even the first client he had needed to jab with his stun gun, but it wasn’t.

But something about this one got to him.

Maybe it was the way “Kyle’s” eyes had rolled back into his head, the way he had lost all color and collapsed onto the floor like a ragdoll. Maybe it was the way Bucky had genuinely thought for a moment that he wasn’t going to escape this time. Maybe it was that he hadn’t seen it coming. Bucky almost always saw them coming.

Whatever it was, he certainly hadn’t meant to run to Steve.

He’s sure it was dramatic. Running into the reception vestibule; mostly naked, all beat up and panicked. Steve had lunged forward to help him, like a great knight in shining.

Then, at the end of it all, he fed Bucky waffles. Waffles, of all damned things. Waffles, with whipped cream and that strawberry stuff, like his mom used to make, but better, because his mom was a shit cook.

The tequila had eased his nerves and loosened his limbs. He stretched lazily, just listening to Steve talk. He had a nice voice, surprisingly deep, and sweetly lilting. Bucky liked when he dipped into his accent, like he couldn’t help it. The Brooklyn Irish drawl of his voice reminded Bucky of home. So much about Steve reminded Bucky of home. Not the awful, loud, overwhelming home where Bucky grew up, but of the idea of what 'home' should be. Steve made him think of fucking Thomas Kinkade paintings and hearths and buying curtains and shit.

“You fallin’ asleep, Buck?” Steve asked, a small amused smile playing on his face. He looked tired too. This was Steve’s normal naptime, after all. The lazy motherfucker was always sleeping on the job. His flushed, sleepy face made Bucky want to do all sorts of stupid things.

“Nah.” Bucky pushed his plate away from himself, fuller than he’d ever felt in his life. “Keep talking.”

In the pauses between breaths, it all crept back on him. The fear and paranoia, the feeling of the carpet against his cheek and breath against the back of his neck, the absolute panic he felt when it didn’t seem like his client was breathing.

Bucky drained the last of his orange juice cocktail, staring at Steve’s eyelashes and willing the sensations away. “…some theorize that Salai was the model for Mona Lisa. I have a couple colleges that are totally convinced. I mean, he was Da Vinci’s lover and we’re pretty sure that he was the model for St. John the Baptist and Bacchus, and if you compare the three, they’re pretty similar; although I think that’s mostly because Da Vinci could only draw a handful of faces. But the Mona Lisa was left to Salai when Da Vinci died, and if you think about it, ‘Mona Lisa’ is an anagram for ‘Mon Salai’.”

Steve shrugged, taking a bite of his waffles. “I don’t know. I’d really like to believe it, but the Louvre disputes it. Maybe if I had a chance to analyze it up close, but _that’ll_ never happen.”

“Sounds like to Louvre is full of a buncha cowards.” Bucky said.

Steve giggled a little, covering his face. “I don’t think I’m allowed to agree with you. Like, professionally.”

“Yeah, they might-might not let you have your Ph.D.” Bucky said. He felt light, if he ignored the overwhelming sense of dread in the back of his mind. “They’ll call up NYU like,” Bucky put on his best french accent, lifting his nose in the air. ‘Hon, hon, hon, ze Steven laughed at _nous_ with _un_ _prostitué_. He’s not allowed to look at ze art anymore.’”

“That’s your french accent?” Steve laughed. _“Non, non, non, mon bel ami. Vous êtes douloureusement confondu._ C'est _un accent français, que vous êtes légalement obligé d'avoirsi vous étudiez l'art.”_

Bucky raised his eyebrows. “Woah.” He leaned forward, putting his head in his hands. “Talk dirty to me, Stevie.”

Steve smirked. _“Tu es si beau. Je n'ai pas arrêté de penser à toi depuis qu'on s'est rencontré.”_ The expression on his face grew a little more genuine. “ _J'aimerais que tu m'en dises plus sur toi. Je veux tout savoir sur ta vie.”_ The smile was gone from his face, and he was staring at Bucky with a weirdly sincere expression. _“Je crois que je suis amoureux de toi. Je crois que je suis stupidement amoureux de toi."_

“Um.” Bucky cleared his throat. He felt laid bare, like Steve was staring at a part of him that he didn’t know was there. “ _Très_ sexy.”

Steve was staring at his empty plate. “Yeah. Totally.”

“Excuse me, gentlemen.” Gabe said, reaching over to dump their plates into the bussing tray. He was giving Steve a strange look. “Uh, Rogers? Jim....said he wanted to see you in the kitchen."

“Oh, I don’t think I need to talk to... Jim.” Steve said quickly, scratching the back of his neck.

“Oh, I _really_ think you do. Right fucking now.” Gabe said insistently. He grabbed Steve’s wrist and pulling him out of the seat. “I’ll have him back to you in one moment, buddy. Jacques! _Vous devez écouter ce que cet idiot a juste dit!”_ He dragged Steve away, muttering to him in rapid french. Bucky stared at the table, a little shell-shocked.

He drummed his fingers unsteadily on the tabletop, looking around every few seconds. Without Steve there to ground him, Bucky was shaken and paranoid again, waiting for an attack or the cops or fucking Alexander to appear.

“You good, kid?” Jim, grabbing the now-mostly-empty bottle of tequila.

“Aren’t you supposed to be in the kitchen, chewing out Steve?” Bucky asked, glancing at where Gabe stormed off.

Jim frowned. He peered at the kitchen doors and shrugged. “Huh. Um. No. Just checkin’ up on you. You looked pretty shook up when you came in. Steve, too.”

“Yeah, it was, uh,” Bucky did another one of those surreptitious glance arounds, making sure that no dangers had appeared in the last few seconds. “A bad day at work, that’s all.”

“So... you an art conservationist, too?” Jim asked skeptically.

Bucky laughed a little. “Um. Not exactly, no. I work out of the motel.”

“Ah.” Jim took in Bucky’s eyeliner and his tight, uncomfortable, but admittedly sexy outfit and nodded. “Uh, listen-” Jim sat down in the seat across from him. “Steve’s an idiot, but I’ve known him my whole life.”

“Oh, we’re not…” Bucky trailed off, making an all-encompassing gesture. “He’s just a friend. You don’t need to give me the shovel talk.”

Jim looked unconvinced. “Uh-huh."

Steve came back from the kitchen, brow furrowed in that expression he got when he _knew_ an answer to a crossword puzzle but couldn’t quite get to it. That on-tip-of-the-tongue frustration cleared up when he looked over at Bucky and Jim, and he waved stiltedly. “Hey.”

“Hey. How was your urgent conversation?” Bucky asked, unable to stop from smiling as Steve hovered awkwardly by the table.

“Oh. You know.” He shrugged. “Terrible.”

“I’m so glad you value our friendship.” Gabe said, passing him by to greet some newcomers at the door.

Jim got up, sighing heavily. “Alright, I’ll see you later, boys. Back to work.”

“Here,” Steve pulled Jim in for a brief hug, slapping his remaining cash into his palm. “Keep the change. And seriously consider firing Gabe and Jacques. They’re terrors.”

“I would never.” Jim scoffed. “Jacques the best cook I’ve had in ages and I’ve got to keep Gabe around because, well, just look at him, Rogers. He’s precious. He’s had that same angelic face since we were kids. I can’t just kick him to the curb now. We’d go out of business.”

Steve snorted. “Plus your mom would kick your ass.”

“Damn straight. She loves Gabe more than any of her actual children.” Jim clasped Steve’s shoulder, then glanced over at Bucky with a nod. “Best of luck to you both.”

The two of them headed back into the cold uncertainty of the night, and for a moment, Bucky wished that they could have just stayed in the diner forever. A blissful 3am purgatory of waffles and insomniacs.

“Um, well.” Steve gestured at nothing, then pushed up his glasses.

Bucky didn’t want to go back to his apartment. The thought of going back to his shitty murphy bed and his addict roommates was depressing, and even thinking about of being alone right now was making panic rise in his throat. He could always pick up another john or call Natasha or-or something, but he also didn't want to leave Steve’s side. No one else made him feel quite as safe. “Do you live nearby?”

“Yeah, actually.” Steve glanced over at Bucky. “Would you like to…”

“Yes.” Bucky agreed before Steve could finish the invitation. “Yes, please.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay, so the french translated is:
> 
> "“That’s your french accent?” Steve laughed. “No, no, no, my beautiful friend, you are terribly confused. _This_ is a French accent.”
> 
> Bucky raised his eyebrows. “Woah.” He leaned forward, putting his head in his hands. “Talk dirty to me, Stevie.”
> 
> Steve smirked. “You are so beautiful. I haven't stopped thinking about you since we first met.” The expression on his face grew a little more genuine. “I wish you would tell me more about yourself. I want to know everything about your life.” The smile was gone from his face, and he was staring at Bucky with a weirdly sincere expression. “I think I'm in love with you. I think that I'm stupidly in love with you.""
> 
> And Gabe's bit is: "Jacques! You have to listen to what this idiot just said!"
> 
>  
> 
> I used an internet translator, so the french is most likely imperfect. If you spot any mistakes, feel free to let me know!

**Author's Note:**

> I made a Marvel twitter! Go follow me @buckshitup


End file.
